


losers like us

by doublejoint



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: What are they, who have already lost the things they’d built?
Relationships: Crocodile/Mr. 1 | Daz Bones
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	losers like us

Daz has never been a pirate before now. He’s fought them; he’s killed them; he’s defeated them; he’s been imprisoned with them; he’s fought with them--but he’s never been one. He’s always been a mercenary, working for the bottom line, for the person above him on the ladder, for the next job until it becomes the next after that, perhaps with some end goal in mind but perhaps not. In that sense, being a pirate isn’t much different from what he’s used to. But in others, he’s on the other side of the figurative world as well as the literal one. There’s an overarching goal, yes, but they’re making up the plan as they go, barely faster than drifting as they lay down the tracks ahead of them--and making a run at this is far less straightforward even than taking over Alabasta ever was, or seemed to be. 

They’re making a run at it, though. Those exact words never fall from Crocodile’s mouth, but Daz hears them in the smoke coming from Crocodile’s cigar, sees it in Crocodile’s eyes fixed at the horizon and what lies beyond, at the sand falling from Crocodile’s fingernails when they sit on the deck under the scorching sun, Crocodile squinting as he leans forward to catch the words on the newspaper in Daz’s hands. They can’t make a run at a dream, because dreams are for losers and fools, but what are they, who have already lost the things they’d built? Baroque Works, Alabasta, Crocodile’s position in the Shichibukai, Daz’s position as an assassin? 

So they’re doing it, piece by piece, island by island, and as they sail into the latest port, the morning sun hitting their backs, Daz has--not a great feeling, but a reasonably good one about this one, picked at random from the log pose. It’s been a while since they’ve had a decent fight, but when they walk into the first bar they see and tip over a few occupied chairs, they’re immediately answered by hands at their shoulders and guns pointed at them. It’s a better start than Daz was expecting, actually.

They brawl until the scent of blood and beer has smothered the air and the floor is sticky with it. Daz holds off five men at once until Crocodile dissolves, reforms next to him, and dries them out; he sends them flying into the barrels of ale behind them and he’s already reforming on the other side of the room to avoid the splashes of liquid by the time they hit. A stab here, a slice there, and Daz blocks a handful of bullets with the blade of his arm; Crocodile pulls out the gun he’s started keeping at his hip and fires, three shots that Daz knows are true without having to look, but he looks anyway because it’s fucking magnificent. Daz can slice arteries without looking at them, whenever he wants; he can’t always see the trajectories of the bullets and the smile pulling at Crocodile’s mouth the way it does when he’s winning, wide and gaping and leering at his targets.

The bar is well-stocked, all the more reason to take with them what they can carry, which amounts to a few drinks and some cured meats that’ll last them a while on the water (Daz takes all the ham he can, but Crocodile takes a few salamis tucked under his arm like the one time they’d actually gone into a butcher shop and bought meat at the counter--they’re pirates, but they don’t always have to steal, after all. Only when they feel like it.)

The sun is falling lower in the sky on the far side of the island by the time they head out; the days here must be short.

“We’ll fight somewhere drier next time,” says Crocodile, not that it had affected him much at all--but everyone’s entitled to give themselves the most advantages as they can, after all.

Daz lights Crocodile’s cigar with his own; Crocodile looks as if he’d give Daz a kiss full of teeth if his arms weren’t too full to take the cigar out.

“There’s blood on your wrist,” says Crocodile. “Sloppy, Mr. One.”

His arm is no longer a scythe, but the blood remains; it’s unavoidable. It always has been.

“I’m not you,” says Daz, and he rolls down his shirtsleeves.

Crocodile’s eyes linger conspicuously as he buttons the cuffs and scrape upwards when Daz raises his hand to his cigar. He seems to be willing to let the jab slide for now, but he won’t have been fully distracted by the gesture. Daz exhales; Crocodile looks back at the road in front of them. There’s nothing really to look for; they’ve sufficiently scared the townspeople and there’s no Marine presence here. Maybe a small-time pirate crew or two, but they’ll be dispatched easily--though if there are any, they stay out of the way between the town and the docks.

They could stay here for the night, but there’s something about being in a harbor when you’re used to roaming and you have the option not to. Pirate or no, that’s true of both of them. They’re used to running and leaving. It’s better like this, though, not being alone; it’s better to share that space out on the water under the empty sky. It’s better, Daz thinks, that it’s Crocodile, but he doesn’t feel like saying it, just lets the smoke from his cigar twirl up into the sky.

They set sail as the top of the sun sinks behind the island at their backs, throwing streaks of light over the deck, the nicks in the boards on this secondhand ship, and glaring off the still-there shine of Crocodile’s shoes. Daz rolls his sleeve back up again; the blood’s dried now, flaking off, whomever it belonged to. 

Crocodile’s eyes are closed as if sleeping, but he’s too alert, like a predator luring a small animal in--or, maybe, more like a carnivorous plant, hand closed around the front of his jacket. The island is small behind them, and the first stars are beginning to reveal themselves in the sky. The sails are filled with wind. Daz sits down next to him, and their knees knock together. The island recedes; Crocodile’s hand opens. An invitation. Daz waits, a few seconds. Crocodile cracks an eye open and his grin spreads wider across his cheeks, a laugh rising in the back of his throat. Daz nods and drops his hand into Crocodile’s, cool and dry.

**Author's Note:**

> hbd crocoboy <3


End file.
